


'cause when the morning comes, i know you won't be there

by thesurielships



Series: Feysand One-shots [5]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Fluff, One Night Stands, Sick Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:42:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24781759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesurielships/pseuds/thesurielships
Summary: Based on a tumblr prompt: "stay in bed, you're sick."
Relationships: Feyre Archeron/Rhysand
Series: Feysand One-shots [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1791676
Comments: 9
Kudos: 99





	'cause when the morning comes, i know you won't be there

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crackedship](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackedship/gifts).



Feyre Archeron’s time had come. Memories of the last few hours played on the high ceiling above her: silky sheets and tangled bodies, playful touches and breathless moans, swirling tattoos and violet eyes flecked with stars. She felt a small smile tugging at her lips.

She would die a happy – and extremely sated – woman.

At least, she would have, if it weren’t for the spasms tearing through her abdomen, each one stronger and longer than the last. Feyre breathed through the pain, reigning in her whimpers. She dared a glance at her bed companion. He was, mercifully, still asleep.

In all honesty, she wasn’t surprised this was happening. She was about a week away from her period, and that was when she tended to get the worst of her cramps. She had known having a one night stand would be a terrible idea, yet as she stared at the stranger next to her: the high cheekbones, the sinfully soft lips, the closed lids hiding eyes like the night sky; she couldn’t bring herself to regret it.

He was, simply put, the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

As soon as they’d locked eyes in that dingy bar, her throat had gone dry. They’d exchanged looks all night. She’d stared at him as he laughed with his friends and she could feel his burning gaze on her as she’d let loose on the dance floor. She had already been drunk on him, on his molten looks and knowing smiles, when he’d sauntered up to her and presented himself.

_“Bond,” he’d said, mischief dancing in his eyes. “James Bond.”_

_Feyre had shaken his hand, suppressing a smile. “I must be a better spy than I thought, blowing your cover without even a single word.”_

_“Are you?” he’d retorted, wicked delight flashing in those remarkable eyes. “You just admitted to being a spy yourself.”_

_Feyre had raised a single brow. “But you still don’t know where my allegiances lay.”_

_“Perhaps not.” His smirk promised nothing but trouble. “But I believe I can sway you nonetheless.”_

And she’d been hooked.

Feyre felt herself smiling again, butterflies coming to life in her stomach. She inwardly groaned as the strongest cramp yet had her curling in place. She felt the telltale signs of impending gut hurling. She barely had the time to move so she could spare the sheets, vomiting all over the carpet instead.

She fell back against her pillow with an audible sigh. The pain would indeed kill her, but only if the embarrassment didn’t take her first.

“I hope that’s a happy sigh,” drawled a rumbling voice, still thick with sleep.

Feyre started. “Good morning,” she said with a grimace.

“Regretting last night already?” he asked with that irreverent smirk of his, but the amusement didn’t reach his eyes.

“No, no, no. Absolutely not.” She shook her head vehemently, but had to stop as a fresh wave of nausea hit. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply.

The beautiful stranger – whose name she didn’t even know, Gods – immediately leapt to attention. He sat up, studying her most likely pallid face and messy hair as he rubbed comforting circles down her back. “What’s wrong?’

Feyre winced. “I’m sorry. I know you expected to find me gone come morning, and here I am puking all over your carpet.”

His hand paused on the small of her back. “You puked on my carpet,” he repeated with a wry smile.

Feyre swallowed her mortification and made herself look him in the eyes. “I’m really sorry. If you could just give me my phone, I’ll be out of your –”

“No.”

Feyre blinked. “No?”

“No, no, absolutely not.”

The bastard was teasing her. She glared at him and he chuckled, his hand resuming its blissful ascent on her back. “Don’t worry about the carpet, or leaving, or any of it.”

“But –”

“Stay in bed,” he laid her against the pillow wit heartbreaking gentleness, tucking her in the soft blanket. “You’re sick.”

Feyre wanted to protest more, she really did, but the bed was so comfortable, his finger so cool against her skin as he brushed her hair away from her face; the pain had finally faded down to a dull ache, and sweet, sweet oblivion was beckoning. So she surrendered. 

* * *

When Feyre next awoke, the pain was completely gone. She stretched in the huge bed, sighing with relief. Something cool fell off her forehead. Confused, she held it up to the light. It was a wet towel. The stranger had surely placed it there. She got out of bed, biting back a smile. She took the liberty of using the shower in the adjoined bathroom, and of borrowing a sweater from her host’s closet.

When she was finally clean of the sweat and the smell of her vomit, she padded through the apartment, looking for him. A delicious smell guided her to the kitchen where a shirtless Adonis was cooking something in a big pot.

“Good morning.”

He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Only shy in sickness, I see,” he remarked with a small smile.

Feyre laughed even as she felt a blush creeping up her neck. “What’s your name?”

He paused, and she started babbling. “I know this is a one night stand and I’ve overstayed my welcome and puked all over your carpet so this is already so much more personal than it should be, but –“

“Rhysand,” he interrupted her, amusement twinkling in his eyes. “But since this is _so_ personal –“

Feyre rolled her eyes.

His smile colored his words as he went on, “you can call me Rhys.”

“So, what have you got brewing in there, Rhysand?” she put emphasis on his full name and he chuckled.

“You know, where I come from, we believe in reciprocity.”

“I think I reciprocated enough last night,” Feyre replied with wide-eyed innocence. “Don’t you agree?”

“You cruel, wicked thing.”

Feyre shivered, and she saw his eyes darken. She prowled closer, placing a hand demurely on his naked chest. She looked at him through her eyelashes. “I’m all healed up now, you know.”

Rhys smiled. He grabbed her waist and drew her closer, nudging her with his nose. “Are you sure?”

Feyre brushed her lips against his. “Yes. The wet towel worked its magic.”

Rhys’ low laugh reverberated through her as she kissed him again.

“Thing is, I didn’t have a fever.”

He raised a groomed brow. “You felt pretty hot to me.”

Feyre kissed him again. She couldn’t seem to get enough of him. “Maybe you should blame yourself for that.”

That seemed to sober him up, and he pulled away slightly. “What was that?”

“A kiss?”

He flicked her forehead. “I meant the sickness.”

“Oh.” Heat bloomed on her cheeks. She bit her lip and Rhys tracked that movement like a hawk. “It happens before my period.”

Understanding lit his eyes. His thumbs started tracing mindless circles on her hips. “Do you need anything? Any… supplies?”

Feyre was so grateful she kissed him again. Rhys groaned into her mouth, pulling her flush against him. She broke the kiss just long enough to say: “I’m not on my period yet.”

Rhys was already halfway to the bedroom, Feyre giggling in his arms when she exclaimed: “Wait, the stove!”

He huffed as he turned around. “Stupid soup,” he mumbled under his breath.

“You were making me soup?” Feyre asked as he switched off the stove.

“I was making _us_ soup.”

As infuriating as it was, his teasing gaze was rapidly growing on her. She pinched his side and he pretended to drop her.

She squealed then punched his arm. “You insufferable prick.”

“Is that any way to treat the brave, selfless man who nursed you back to health, _stranger_?”

Feyre bit back her smile, going instead for her best impersonation of his arrogant smirk.

“The name’s Archeron. Feyre Archeron.”


End file.
